GUTS

I got this bad habit where I don’t think before I speak. I fall in love like every week. I keep a pistol when I sleep inside my mouth so I don’t fight my tongue for saying all these things, like how I saw you in my dreams. (I really did) I’m getting bad at it. So I just numb myself instead. I’ll cut my hair and dye it red, and hope you get it through your head that I’m in love and it’s bleeding through my skull, but I’ve been hurt before so I can’t tell you that I keep this image in my mind of you sleeping late at night. I count the lashes on your eyes, keep my legs between your thighs. I could never tell you, even though I’d like to. I swear this never happens. You know I’ve got a way with words. I’d put a million in a verse, but still can’t bring myself to face what I feel. I’m scared of something real. I should spit it out and maybe get the guts to tell you.